


Chemistry

by Swampert653 (lionsenpai)



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universes, Everyone has the hots for Fang, F/F, Final Fantasy XIII-2 will never be a thing ever, Gen, Ignoring Canon, Multi, Various stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionsenpai/pseuds/Swampert653
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Fang and Lightning centric, completely unrelated stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shitty Highschool AU / Feint

**Author's Note:**

> In which Lightning has to contend with Fang's damn indecision.

You see her on the sidelines just as you step onto the pitch, cleats digging deep into the field. You don’t pretend you’re not looking, don’t pretend you’re too busy sizing up the girls opposite to you or observing how terrible the turf is and how you might roll an ankle if you aren’t careful. You think if you tried, you could appear focused on the game, on your teammates, on the goal, but you don’t even attempt to check your gaze. She’s looking back at you with that smile on her face and calls for you. You don’t smile back.

You only drop your eyes when the referee steps into the center of the field and calls to both goalies if they’re ready to go—you don’t get distracted. When the referee blows his whistle, it’s you on the pitch and all you do think about is the girls opposite you and the patchy grass and your teammates and the goal.

Halfway through the game, you are the only thing keeping the other team from dominating the center of the field. None are particularly skilled, but they pass the ball well enough to make up for it. Half of your defenders aren’t in position, and they’ve scored on you twice because of this. Your team has yet to touch their goal, and you’ve already singled out the disconnect: one of your attacking players, a forward with two years on the team, is watching the game more so than playing it. Twice the ball was put within ten yards of their goal, and both times she stopped halfway through her run because the goalie made a move toward the ball. That kind of hesitation, that kind of indecisiveness, has lost your team two chances to make up lost points.

You address this as soon as halftime is called. You don’t sugarcoat things, you never have, and you tell her to either get the ball or save it for someone who is willing to go head to head with their team’s goalie. She bristles and begins to fight you, but you won’t have it. “Make up your mind.” You tell her. “You either want it or you don’t.” Then you turn to meet with the rest of your team and your aged coach to hear the positions for the next half.

The game ends 1-3, and the only goal scored on your side was driven in by a mid-fielder from outside the eighteen yard box. The forward you talked to barely moved the entire half.

You shake hands with the other team and then look up for the first time since the referee blew the whistle. She’s still on the sidelines, wild brown hair whirling about her face and whites of her teeth showing as if you’d never looked away. And, as always, her arm is draped around the shoulders of a brunette when she walks to meet you at center field.

Your face is a blotchy red from exertion, but you’ve got a water bottle in hand, and you’re not breathing hard like you were. “Good game, Farron.” Fang calls to you, jerking at the edge of your jersey when she draws close enough. “But you might as well have played with five.” She tells you. “Not even that.” Lebreau is quick to add, smiling at her as well. “You and the other mid were the only ones breaking a sweat out there.”

“We’ve got two weeks left in the season, and no one wants to work anymore.” You huff, and Lebreau gives a snort. “Speaking of, maybe you can convince this one to stay in her government class long enough to graduate.” She rolls her eyes and presses her fingers into Fang’s hips. “I haven’t had any luck.” Fang grins, positively proud, and then says “Thirty-two days, babe. Thrity-two days.” You roll your eyes as well, though you’re not smiling, and tell her flatly, “Stay in class.” Then you turn, glancing over your shoulder, and tell them, “I’ve got to go.” Fang looks a little confused, and after a moment, she calls out to you, “I’ll be expecting my lecture later!” Then she turns and says something to Lebreau, and Lebreau laughs and the two of them turn to head to Fang’s car.

\---

Serah yells down the stairs to you that mom has already left for work when you open the front door. You pull off your socks and shin guards at the door and call back to her that you expected as much because her car isn’t in the driveway. Somewhere upstairs, you hear Serah drop to the ground, and you think it’s about time she got rid of that bunk bed before she drops through the floor.

“So how was the game?” she asks, bare feet slapping against the carpet as she descends the stairs, hair tied up behind her and flannel pants hanging from her hips. You smile, picking up your gear and dropping it into your bag for practice tomorrow, and tell her, “Morgan scored, but we couldn’t keep it together in the back, and they beat us.” You set your cleats by the door. “Have you finished your homework?” She rolls her eyes and blows out a raspberry. “Yes, jeez.”

You ignore her and begin toward the kitchen. It’s six, and you’ve got an hour to finish math homework before you need to start on dinner for the two of you and something to leave in the fridge for mom when she gets home after work. You think you’ll be lucky to finish half.

“How was Courtney today?” Serah asks, following you into the kitchen and heading to the sink for a glass of water. “Same as always.” You respond, sitting at the table and pulling your calculus book from your bag. You flip it open to the page assigned, and add on, “She barely moved the whole game.” Behind you, Serah leans on the back of your chair and peers over your shoulder. “When’s the coach going to take her out?” she asks idly, and you just shrug. “He’s got her up there for some reason.” You begin to scribe the first problem onto the paper. “But I couldn’t tell you why.”

She hums in her throat and watches you for a while before setting down her empty glass and beginning to undo the braid keeping your hair out of your eyes. “So…” she begins, fingers combing through your hair. “Was Fang there?” You try not to sigh. “Yeah.” You tell her, and she asks, “And?” You glance over your shoulder at her and give a little smile. “And nothing has changed since the last time you asked.” She frowns at this, scrunching her nose up and releasing your hair long enough to turn and throw her hands up. “Argh, that girl!” she groans, and you turn back to your work because you’ve heard this all before.

“Who does she even think she is?” she fumes. “I swear, I’ve just about walked up to her when I’ve seen her in the hallways!” You smile and say, “But you won’t.” She turns and lets out another groan. “Only because you say so, but it’s so hard not to say something—especially to Vanille! _She’d_ talk some sense into her, I bet you she would.” You’re barely listening at this point because you’ve seen the script before. “But you won’t say anything to her either.” She shoots you a look that you can feel, and you can practically hear the way her shoulders sag. “If you say so.” She takes a seat in the chair next to you, and says, “But if you ever chang—” “I know, Serah. Thanks.” She smiles and then looks at you in just that way so that you know exactly what she wants to talk about.

“Want to talk about Snow?” you ask, sighing and tucking your paper back into your book and shutting it. Serah makes a show of pretending that’s definitely not what she wanted to discuss. “What? I mean, yes, but you don’t mind, do you?” she asks, and you roll your eyes. “What happened?” She smiles, blushes, and then leans back, using her hands to show you exactly how excited she is. “He’s going for Prom King!” she tells you. You try not to scoff. She ignores you. “Which means I’ll be running with him.”

You nod and remind her how you can’t be prom king if you aren’t passing all of your classes, and she shushes you and tells you that he _will_ be passing all of his classes by next week. You’re skeptical, and you let her know this and ask her again if she’s sure she even likes him(because how could anyone?), and she tells you she swears she’ll push you down the stairs the next time you ask her that.

You get absolutely nothing done before it’s time to start on dinner.

\---

Four hours later, you’ve showered and eaten and done a bit of picking up around the house, and you’re sitting up in your room with the door pushed to and the remnants of your homework scattered around you on your bed. You’ve been debating whether you really need to pick up your english reading assignment, and after glancing at it a final time, you decide it can wait until later. You rise, pick up your headphones and then return to your bed, pushing the books and papers to the side so you can lie down. You push the headphones into your ears and then press the button and let the sound lull you off while you reach for your phone to set an alarm for the morning.

When you look at your phone, you realize Fang texted you hours ago, and you snort at the message. “ _wat? nothin 2day??”_   You flip open your phone and send her a response: “ _You only saved one letter typing that.”_ Then you set your alarm and place your phone on your nightstand, flip the light on the table off, and call a good night to Serah. She yells back at you from across the hall, and then you close your eyes and think that this will be the earliest you’ve gone to sleep in a long time.

The sound of buzzing cuts through Brian Crain’s piano refrain, and you open your eyes and think of course she’s already texted you back. You reach for your phone and open the message. _“o shut up, u no it doesnt even mattr :P”_ And god, now she’s using those stupid faces. “ _Yes, because who cares if you sound retarded?”_ you fire back, belatedly realizing you should just go to bed. That plan is shot, however, when your phone buzzes again, and you decide this is simply one battle you cannot win. “ _yea ok watevr. u ok? prob busy right?”_ You take a moment before sending her a text back. _“Mom had her shift at the hospital switched around, and Dad is still out on business. I had to be home to stay with Serah.”_

It is officially the worse excuse you’ve ever given, and you fully expect her to call you on it. She does. “ _wat thats so stupd shes like 16 now farron”_ And a few moments later, your phone goes off again. _“:/”_ You roll your eyes. Uncalled for, Fang. _“She and Snow are running for prom king and queen. I wouldn’t want them to start celebrating before they’ve even won.”_ You respond, and that’s a very real concern.  It takes a moment for Fang to reply, but when she does, you’re almost impressed with her diction. _“haha o wow farron wat a hypocrite. jus let em bang already”_ You cringe, trying not to smile as much as you are, and type back, _“Shut up. Not in the house.”_

 _“ok watevrrr so u had 2 stay wit serah 2day. wat bout next time?? good then?”_ You frown. You don’t think you’ll be free for a while. You tell her this in less blatant terms. _“I don’t know. Probably not. Mom’s schedule might not be back by then.”_ At least that was true. _“dam that suks i gues ill hav 2 visit u 2morow 2 make up 4 it :)”_ You scoff. _“If you visit me, I’ll have my teacher write you up for skipping.”_ She proves undeterred. _“yes watevr well c wat u say 2morow ;)”_ You set your phone down on the nightstand and absolutely refuse to respond to that.

\---

Fang shows up, as promised, twenty minutes into gym and slips right into the crowd without your instructor noticing. You are severely unimpressed. She catches you, hair pulled back and all smiles _as usual_ , and you tell her, “You really aren’t going to graduate at this rate.” She frowns but then smooths the expression from her visage. “Sure I will. Even with your nagging.”

You scoff and tell her, smiling, “I don’t think you’d have made it this far without it.” She scoffs right back at you, pulling you from the crowd by the shoulder of your shirt and stopping only when you’ve reached the wall of the gymnasium. Your back is pressed to the wall, and she’s right next to you, one shoulder digging into the brick while she tells you, “Sure I woulda.” There’s a crease in her brow like she thinks she’s right, and you think you’re finding it funnier than she’d like. “Don’t give me that look, Farron.” You tilt your lips like you’ve got no idea what she’s talking about. “Then get back to class.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine.” She holds up her hands and pushes herself off the wall. “I’ll leave.” She almost fools you into thinking she’s actually going back to government. The smile breaking out across her face gives her away. “But you’re coming with me.” You’ve only got a second to start to smile and shake your head before she’s got you under her arm and is dragging you out of the gym, both of you laughing.

When you breach the doors, somehow unnoticed, she’s got you in a headlock, and you’re jabbing her in the side with your elbow. When she tightens her grip, she push right up against her until she’s stuck between you and the wall and she’s got to let you go. You’re still chuckling, and she says, “Watch it, Farron. Skipping _and_ fighting? They’ll suspend you for that.” You leave her against the wall and begin to walk. “You started it.” You tell her, and you can hear her follow behind you.

“Huh.” She says, nearly falling into your back. “I dunno.” And she’s got her chin pressed to your shoulder and her arms linked around your hips. “Think I could use a few days off school. ‘Specially if you’d be off too.” She lets out a content sigh, and you wrap your fingers around her wrist. “I wouldn’t talk to you.” You say dryly, lighthearted expression washed from your face.

She laughs, a single syllable right in your ear, and declares, “Sure you would.” She sounds quite certain. “Course I wouldn’t have to wait for you to get suspended if you’d take a day from soccer once in a while.” You frown, a deep crease across your face, and slow down. “You wouldn’t have to wait for suspension if we didn’t have to be alone.”

She, predictably, stops, halting you as well, and you can see her face twisting up from the corners of your eyes. “Hey,” she’s whispering right in your ear, and you sigh. “ _Hey_ ,” Fang’s nearly hissing. She pulls back just enough so her arms can hang at her sides and she can stand on her own. You turn to face her, still frowning, and you know nothing’s going to change just by looking at her. She brings her hand to your jaw and slides her fingers back into your hair. You sigh and close your eyes: defeat in entirety. She leans into you and her lips are soft against yours.

You wish she wouldn’t do this. She’s avoiding the issue _again_ , and you know you won’t be able to touch the topic again after this—she’ll keep you busy enough so you can’t.

She pulls back and gives you a lopsided grin. You wish your stomach wouldn’t knot so much at the sight of it because that’s the face you’ve seen her give Lebreau more times than you can count. “Hey, I’m not scared of nothing.” She pulls you closer before you can tell her that’s not the problem, and you just end up biting your tongue as she bites your lower lip.

\---

You kiss her hard when the last of the cars has pulled from the parking lot. She straddling you in the passenger’s seat of her 1999 Buick Regal, and you’ve got the taste of cigarettes on your tongue. She and Lebreau must have been smoking before they came to the game.

The thought makes you dig your fingers into her mess of hair, and she tugs back, her fingers catching in your jersey and pulling it taunt against your front. She’s making you dizzy with what her lips are doing, but you don’t think you’d ever be gone so far that you could ignore the taste on her tongue. Assuming you even _would_.

It’s deceptive how much she’s putting into this—it would almost make you think that she’s gone and forgotten all about Lebreau and their five month, which they celebrated only yesterday. It makes your stomach knot, but not like when Fang smiles at you just so. You push your head back into the seat, pretending to come up for air, and she doesn’t even give you that.

Her lips are at your neck, and you’re breathing hard despite it all. “Fang…” you breathe, and you know it’s not nearly controlled enough to catch her attention. She hums against your throat, teeth just grazing the skin below your ear. “ _Fang.”_ You try again, dropping your hands from her hair and wrapping your fingers around her biceps. She pulls back just a bit, licking her lips and giving you her best, half-lidded smirk. “Farron.”

You suck in a breath and say, “ I don’t like this.” She frowns, brows knitting, and leans back just a bit more. “ _This._ ” You motion to the car and the two of you. She tenses her shoulders just a bit. “Well, we don’t have to be _here_ —” she starts, but you’re not so easily distracted by her misunderstanding. “You and Lebreau.” You say. “And you and me.”

Her face screws up, blank to uneasy, and she shifts in your lap. “C’mon, Farron.” She begins, and she’s glancing out the window so she doesn’t have to look at you. “Not right now.” She slides on hand across your shoulder and the other up into your hair. You know she’s leaning into you before you can even feel her lips on yours again, but you press your hands against her shoulders so she can’t reach you. “When are we going to talk about it then?” you ask, and you can feel ire on the tip of your tongue even stronger than the cigarettes on hers.

She lets out a long breath, shifting again, and says, “I dunno.” Your brows begin to knit. She must notice because she frowns and tips her head back just a bit so she doesn’t have to see. “Why’s it even matter?” She glances down at you and catches sight of your expression. “Don’t give me that look.” She tells you, huffing and then trying to erase the expression from her face. “We’ll talk _later_.”

You don’t want to talk about it later. She’s been delaying this conversation since before her countdown had dropped below the hundreds. You’re tired of waiting. You’re tired of telling Serah the same thing every time she asks about Fang. You’re tired of feeling guilty whenever Lebreau enters a room(even more tired of comparing yourself to her every time she’s not there), and you’re tired of Fang’s damn indecision. You want an answer, so when she starts to lean into you, starts to sweep it under the rug again, you decide you’re not about to be pacified.

“Fucking _no._ ” you hiss, fingers digging into her hips as you pull her roughly toward you. She straightens, looks surprised, and pulls back away from your grip. “You’re never going to talk with me.” You tell her, and it’s taking all your self-control not to snarl. “So just listen for once.” She squirms, looking away, and begins to mumble, “Look, Farron, I don’t—” You drag her back towards you again, and she freezes mid-sentence, stiffening again and letting out a soft breath. “I said _listen_.”

She’s not going to subvert you this time. You scrap your nails against the skin against her pelvis, and you hear her choke back another distraction. “I’m tired of this.” You say, and she looks down at you, lip held between her teeth. “You made a choice already.” You tell her, fingers to the fly to her pants. “And now you’ve got to make another one.” You open your legs, slip your hand below the silk of her underwear, and press two fingers to her clit. She jerks and shudders.

(Nevermind you haven’t even spoken about her first choice, and that was five months ago.)

“I don’t want to keep doing this.” She’s got her eyes screwed shut, but that’s alright because you just need her ear. You’ve still got your fingers on her, and she’s twitching and letting out heavy breaths and gripping the shoulders of your jersey. “And I won’t.” Your fingers tangle in her hair when she turns her head to the side, eyes still closed, and tug her back so she’s facing you. “So make up your mind.” You hiss at her, and she barely opens her eyes to look at you. “You either want me or you want her.”

Fang doesn’t respond, just keeps panting and jolting, and you grit your teeth and set you jaw and slide your fingers lower to push inside her. She tips her head back, moaning, and drives her hips down against you until she’s hitching your name and shaking and trying to kiss you but you _won’t_. And then she goes limp against your frame, and you huff, withdrawing your fingers and wiping them on the denim of her jeans.

You don’t give her a chance to regain herself before you’re pushing her from your lap into the driver’s seat, and then you open the door and rise and begin to straighten your twisted jersey. She grunts at you when you grab your bag from the back seat, and you don’t even look at her. “You’ve got seventeen days until we graduate.” You tell her flatly, reminding her of her counter. “So figure something out before then.” Then you shut the door, turn, and begin to walk home.


	2. Tarantarism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fang comes to Lightning with all her fears and regrets, and Lightning has nothing for her but a few words and a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarantism – the state of having a devil on your back and shaking it off

You twirl Fang like she's your sister, the tears imagined on her cheeks and the sobs an echo from another time. You've got nothing for her worries but a dance and a hummed tune, but if that's not enough you can't tell. She's silent, looking over your shoulder, while you guide her by the hip and hand through the steps you haven't taken in years.

You know she's not with you right now, off with Vanille or her friends past, but she keeps up with your steps like she's coming back to the present. She's been bogged down, a noticeable slump in her shoulders, and you've seen the bravado fading faster and faster the nearer Oerba approached. She fooled no one today, walking through the streets and kicking rusted metals, and you were stunningly unsurprised when she came to you while the others slept.

You know she's been trying—fighting for Vanille because that's all she has left. She didn't even need to tell you that for you to get it. She can't let Vanille slip through her fingers like she did her friends, her family, her world. But most importantly, you know she can't allow Vanille to see her like this.

She won't make tomorrow at this rate.

You press your cheek to her temple, her head bent into your shoulder, and you erase her fears with a flourish, a quick move that sends you both spinning about the underside of the orphanage. If not for your recovery, you'd have fallen right into the rubble at your feet, but instead the two of you just stumble, and when you straighten, unmoving, you hear her mumble something into your shoulder. You crane your neck to look at her, asking, "What?" and she finally lifts her head and laughs a single, quiet syllable into your ear.

Then she tells you dryly , "You can't dance for shit."

You scoff, pull her into a sway, and tell her, "I only ever danced with Serah." That was all you ever had for her troubles too.

She turns her head, hand squeezing at your shoulder, and stares hard into the sky. Her brows are downturned, and she keeps parting her lips like she's going to speak before pressing them tight together.

You wonder, stepping idly, if she's weighing the chances of you saving Cocoon with the chances of her tearing it down. You wonder what the odds look like to her.

Then she drops her gaze, lets out a sharp breath from her nose, and quirks the corner of her lips like she's found some grim humor up in the sky. But when she looks at you, her lips have sunken into a deep frown; she keeps her brows angled the same. "So," she breathes like she's collecting herself, "You lot really think you got a miracle in you?" she asks, and you know she's desperate, but she's not stupid.

So you think. You think of the inky black and angry red that grow by the day; you think of the millions of people who are living a spoon fed lie, who are living at the inconvenience of the fal'cie, who will not be living much longer if you don't do something about the fal'cie; you think of Serah, of all the things you told her, of all the things she told you, of the last thing she told you. You think of everything that's at stake, and when you've thought of all of that and you start to feel the grip of doubt, you shake it off, leaving your thoughts and your worries behind.

Your steps have slowed to nothing, leaving the two of you standing there, still pressed close. "We won't know until we try." You tell her, and she just jerks her head away, letting out a breath of aggravation. "Yeah, real assuring." She's breathless and lets you go, turning and taking three steps from you. She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Well," she sighs after a long moment, "I sure hope so 'cause I don't know if I got it in me to turn Ragnorak again." Her shoulders sag at this, and you approach her, standing to her side, and tell her, "You don't have to. We're in this together, remember?"

She turns, looks at you, and then gives a low, hoarse laugh. "Yeah," she says weakly. "I guess we are."

You wonder if you'll have to take her into your arms again, sweeping across the ground to make her remember you're there, and somehow you figure you probably will because Fang is set in her ways and stubborn as a mule, but you also think, so be it because you can't do this without her. So you just think of it as practice, practice for when you see Serah again and you take her into your arms too.


	3. A Few of my Favorite Things,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lightning has her skirt hitched up around her hips, her legs propped up on a desk, and Fang working between her thighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A combination of my three favorite things: desk sex, chair sex, and Fang eating out Lightning.

You shudder out another shaky ' _ah_ ', and you hunch forward until you're nearly touching the crown of her head with your nose.

Everything is jerky, quivers down to the tips of your toes. Your legs tremble violently, and your left foot nearly drops from the edge of the desk where you've got your heel hooked, the other stretched over the plane of the desk. Your chest is seizing, ballooning suddenly and then shuddering in exhale. You jump, bodily, every so often, and your moans are a broken mixture of syllables and curses because you _know_ she's doing this on purpose.

"Fang— _oh_ ," you keen abruptly, and your voice cracks because your voice is too dry, and you don't have the mind to keep control of it. Your fingers tighten in her hair, and you bite your lower lips, curling in on yourself as you feel yourself approach your climax—

Fang lets out a long breath, calmly, and draws back a moment, her fingers stilling within you. You can barely see her stupid smirk because your vision is so blurry, but before you can even begin to speak, begin to loose your fingers from her hair and finish yourself off, she starts in on your again, almost like she'd never left.

You let out a long, desperate moan, dig your fingers into her scalp as hard as you can, and lean back in your chair, ' _fuck you'_ trapped in your throat.

It's the same each time—just before you're about to finish, she pulls back, just long enough to break the rhythm but not enough to make you lose your buzz. And then her fingers and tongue are back at you, working in tandem to push you right back, and all you can think is how deliciously her fingers curl inside you and how you just need one more second, one more second—

She halts again, but this time you hold her tight against you, so much that she lets out a sharp laugh and resumes her work.

When she circles your clit a second time, you arch your back, stars behind your lids, and let out a sharp ' _ohh_ ' and everything falls to pieces around you.

When you come back, Fang is pressing her lips to your stomach and scrapping her fingernails against your hips. You pant, grit your teeth, and then tug on her hair. She looks up, grins for you just so, and she tells you, "You alright there, soldier? Thought you'd never stop shaking."

You could smack her. Instead, you pull her up to you with your hands, and she's open mouthed and ready for a kiss, but you stop her. It takes you a moment to gather your breath, and her grin goes sheepish in that time. She thinks she's over stepped, and if she weren't so horribly _wonderful_ , you'd have agreed.

"Fuck you." You finally whisper, hot and breathy, and you dip toward her, your lips tingling right along with the rest of you.

She stalls and then sets a hand to your hip, the other at the back of your head, and you think she's gotten off far too easy for keeping you on edge for so long. Just as soon as you can stand, you're going to change that.


	4. Serah's Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lightning has /definitely/ got it going on and Fang can't resist. Joke fic.

Serah is Vanille’s friend, and you’re sometimes friends because of that. This means you’re nice enough when you see each other without your mutual link, and you’re under the pretense of good friends when Vanille does happen to be around.   
  
That’s why you’re happy enough to talk to Serah like you really know her when Vanille’s invited herself (and subsequently you for reasons that include being the only one with a car but not enough gas money for more than one trip) to Serah’s house for a celebration of the end of summer.   
  
You told her you’d rather grieve for it, but she just laughed, and Serah gave that little giggle you always hear from her.   
  
But that’s why you’re stripped down to your swim suit, hanging on the edge of a pool and talking lazily about work with two girls who haven’t seen a day of work in their lives.   
  
“Do they really ever go to your manager?” Serah asks, resting with her hand on the edge of the pool opposite you. Her baby face’s open with curiosity and disbelief, and her mouth makes an O when you just shrug.   
  
“Sometimes, but food service gets shit like that all the time so Lebreau don’t do much--”  
  
“One time she almost got fired, though! Tell her about the woman with the wig, Fang.” Vanille laughs and twirls in the water, arms coming up and then splashing down dangerously close to you. You turn away from her so the water don’t get in your eyes, and she’s right there on your arm when you turn back.   
  
Vanille’s got a fascination with customers that give you shit, and she hates when you shrug her off as nosy. She keeps on you until you give, but you’re both smiling when you finally cave. You never don’t cave, not for Vanille.   
  
But you’re not there yet so you jerk your head away from her with the workings of a smile and say, “Interrupting. _Rude._ ” Her cheeks puff up, and she’s scowling. “You know it better than me by now anyway. _You_ tell it.” She _hmphs_ and splashes you, and you sputter a bit and slid away from her, looking offended.  
  
“Jesus, Serah do you see what I go through with her?” you say, pushing off the wall and away from Vanille. “Downright abusive, she is.”   
  
Vanille blows a raspberry behind you and rolls her eyes. “ _Whateverrrr_.” she huffs, all long and drawn out. “You know I’m the best you’ve ever had!” she smiles and laughs.  
  
“Oh no, I don’t think so. I bet you Serah’d treat me better. Bet you she wouldn’t whine or nag or hit me or nothing.” you say and then pause. “You know what, Serah you’re my sister now. Forget Vanille.” You smile at her and she laughs and goes a bit red. You swim toward her slowly, and you can hear Vanille’s offended gasp, and you know she’s coming after you without even looking.   
  
The sliding glass door to the house opens, and a copy of Serah, years older, walks out and looks right at you.

You feel hands on your shoulders and then all you see is the blue of the water and the pink and white of Serah’s suit, and suddenly all the air’s gone from around you and you got nothing to breath.   
  
When you come back up, you’re sputtering for real, and you can’t see for chlorine, but you can hear Vanille laughing, and that’s enough for you to grab for her. She squeals when you snatch her by the suit, and you’re still half blind when you say, “Dunk me, will you!” and throw yourself up on her shoulders.   
  
She surfaces, all coughs and complaints, and you just smirk. “You just remember that next time.” She just whines and laughs a little more, gliding to the wall to catch her breath.   
  
By this time you’ve got your sight back and your memory too, and you look over to where Serah’s—mom?—copy is, standing in just a towel. She’s staring at the three of you, wet as you are, and Serah looks like she’s trying to work out an introduction between her laughter.   
  
“Friends?” the copy asks when Serah holds up one finger for a moment, and she just nods, still trying to catch her breath. Vanille is smiling, throwing Serah eyebrows like they’ve got some joke between the two of them, and that quiets Serah down quick enough. She colors a bit, probably from the laughter, and clears her throat.  
  
“ _Ahem_ ,” she starts. “These are my friends Vanille and Fang.” she says, looking up to her copy, who looks only vaguely interested, more watchful than intent. “Vanille, you know Lightning.” Vanille nods and waves, something the copy returns. “But, uh, Fang, this is my sister, Lightning.”  
  
“Oh.” you say, looking her up and down. You open your mouth again and ask, “So she ain’t your mom?”   
  
*  
  
And that’s how you meet Lightning Farron.   
  
She’s two years older than you, a junior in college, and she’s got a career lined up in front of her with the military. She’s also got a nice car and a family that can afford to slip her a bit of cash if she’s running low, _and_ she’s got two full scholarships so she don’t even have to worry about tuition.   
  
But as much as you get to feeling pangs of jealousy for what she’s got, you don’t think rich military girl with the big house when you think about her. No, when you hear the name Lightning Farron, all you can think is _total babe_.  
  
You weren’t wrong when you thought she was Serah with some years. She’s got all of Serah’s features with the definition that comes with being outta highschool. Sharp face, long lashes, toned everything, and that’s not even counting her curves.   
  
You may have been staring.  
  
You may have been _caught_ staring.   
  
You try not to worry about that, though, because it only landed you a few too hard elbows from Vanille, and if Lightning or Serah could tell, they didn’t let on. You’re not sure, but you know without a doubt that you’ll never see Lightning Farron again, so it’s not a big deal even if everyone there fucking knew.   
  
*  
  
Lightning Farron reappears in your life exactly thirteen days later.   
  
She strides into your workplace, impassive as you last saw her, with a gym bag under her arm, a sports uniform that reads _Thunders_ , and sweat across her brow. You’re not on cash register, and you’re thankful for it because “ _Hi, welcome to Starbucks_ ,” isn’t as suave an entrance as you need to recover from the way you’re gaping now or the way you were gaping then.   
  
Your mop and bucket aren’t doing much for you either, though, so you shut your trap and scoot over into a corner just as soon as you realize you’re staring— _again._ She hasn’t even looked your way yet, and as the surprise at seeing her again fades, you get the sense to hope she won’t, not with you like you are now.   
  
She don’t let it on if she has, but you’re cautious anyway, pushing the mop particularly hard against a brown stain—oh god, you hope that’s coffee—near the bathroom door and only stealing quick glances toward the register every few seconds.  
  
She’s brief, quick, and she doesn’t make small talk aside from a comment about the weather until her order’s come back: a large coffee, black. Something figures about that, military tough and all, and you watch as she turns and think to yourself, _oh no, there she goes._

Despite your nametag and your apron and your black slacks, there’s a part of you that wants nothing more than for her to see you and stop for a chat, see you and want to give you the time of day. That same part of you is also responsible for making you imagine her naked and writhing, and that gives you pause.

  
Besides, you know it’s probably best not to talk to her anyway. No telling why she’s over in your store, but it’s probably some one-time thing anyway, so, this time for real, you won’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself in front of Serah’s hot older sister ever again because you won’t see her ever again.   
  
Except she doesn’t go. She takes the seat closest to the door, and begins sipping on her coffee like it isn’t hot like the sun, and you think, _oh no, now I have to talk to her_.  
  
And maybe you don’t _have_ to talk to her, but she’s got a large coffee and there’s no way the two of you could ever not notice each other while she drinks the whole damn thing. And if you notice each but don’t say anything, she’s gonna think you’re the biggest pussy to ever exist. Never mind you still got that part of you nagging to either talk to her or strip her.  
  
So you mop at the stain a few more times, look over your shoulder twice more, and when you think you’ve got a good enough opener, you take a deep breath and walk over to her, your mop and bucket left over by the brown stain in the corner.

“So,” you say, and she looks up, alert at once and graceful enough not to spew that mouthful of coffee all over the table for you to clean up. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so quick.” Or ever, really. “What’re you doing around here?”

She swallows, pauses, and then really looks at you, eyes up and down until she’s stuck on your face. “Oh.” She says, “You’re Serah’s friend. Fang, right?”

You’re off to a good start if she remembers you, and you smile for it. No reason you can’t be funny and score some points with her even if you are at work. Yeah, you got this. “Got a knock to the head since I last saw ya?” you ask because how could anyone forget your gorgeous face so soon? “Dangers of playing…” Shit wait, what did she play again?

“Soccer.” she tells helpfully you when you stall for just a second too long. Oh. That’s right. _One_ of her scholarships was for sports, soccer specifically. “And no—you just look different without the bathing suit.” She takes another long sip of coffee.

You grin and tell her, “I recognized you without the towel.”

She laughs at that, quiet, low, and then smiles. She doesn’t even look at you when she says, “I wasn’t looking as hard.”

Suddenly you’re eleven and your best friend has just found out you still play house with Vanille. There’s a moment of _oh god_ and then one of _oh no_ where your face turns redder than hell and you feel your guts knot with embarrassment.

Lightning Farron saw you staring, and she just called you out on it, and suddenly all you want to do is go crawl in the ground somewhere.

For her part, she looks pleased as can be, eyes closed, smile intact, and sipping like she didn’t just carve up your pride and serve it back to you in little pieces.

You shouldn’t be so embarrassed. You shouldn’t fucking care if she saw because when have you ever cared about something like this? But there you are, red in the face and frozen right to the spot, and you are _so fucking embarrassed._

She doesn’t even need to look to know you’re floundering. “I, uh,” you try, but you’re not sure what you should say to make this any better. “Haha, yeah I guess.” You spout whatever comes to mind and she just laughs a little. She’s just delighted.

“Right. Anyway, _Fang_ ,” she says, and there’s something mighty intimidating in the way she’s looking at you now, smiling at you now. Your heart starts up like there’s gonna be another attack, but she just rises from her seat, smooth as silk, and says, “It was nice talking to you, but I should get going.”

You take a step back so she can walk by you, but she stops before the door and turns to look over her shoulder at you. “I’ll see you Tuesday after practice.” And then she walks out the door before you figure out what that means or even how to talk. You watch her pull out of the parking lot, and behind you, you hear Gadot whistle and call, “Talk about crash and burn!”

He doesn’t even know the half of it.

*

Vanille’s on the living room floor with a science book spread out in front of her, a pencil hanging from her teeth, and her cell phone held just above the text when you come home and fall face first into the sofa. She knows that’s her cue to come over, and you hear her stop typing away after a second, and then you hear footsteps She climbs on top of you, laid right over you, and asks what’s wrong.

You tell her, “Work.” but it’s all muffled into the cigarette burned cushions so it comes out like _worf_. She hums, arms folded across your shoulder blades, and then you feel her chin press into the base of your neck.

“That all?” she asks because you can’t get nothing past her keen nose for gossip. Sometimes you got the feeling more than sisterly love is at work when she wants to know how your day went, but then you remember you’d be nursing your wounded pride with a tub of ice cream and a marathon of The Walking Dead if she weren’t here, so you wiggle and swat at where you can reach her so she’ll get off you.

When she does, you turn over so you’re face up instead—and damn, you’re like one of them psyche-ward patients, and Vanille’s your doctor who you’re gonna spill all your dirty little secrets to—and she lays her head on your stomach and rubs your upper arm a bit, and goddammit, you feel a little better for it. About as better as you can feel about being such a dumbass anyway.

You sigh deep and tell her about it, and she laughs a bit but mostly keeps it to herself, and you’re thankful for that you guess. And when you’re done, she just smiles at you and tells you not to worry too much about what Lightning Farron thinks because Lightning Farron is just Serah’s older sister and what does she matter anyway.

“She doesn’t,” you agree, but that doesn’t help that she’s a total babe and you are continuously making yourself look worse and worse in her eyes. Probably keep doing it too, if she’s actually coming back on Tuesday.

“So what’s it matter?” she asks happily, and you know she finds the whole thing a little silly, but you’re not quite to that point yet because you still get a little red thinking about it so you tell her, “I dunno,” Nothing but sarcasm in your tone. “ _She’s hot.”_

Vanille stops rubbing your arm at that, and suddenly she’s looking at you funny and you can’t tell if she’s shocked or horrified. And then all you can think is, _oh no, now Serah’s gonna know_ because there’s scant any secrets between the two of them even when it comes to you.

If Serah knows then Lightning might hear, and how is it even possible to make such a series of bad first impressions, Jesus Christ _._

So you tack on quick, “And Serah is _not_ allowed to know that, you hear me?” and try not to sound so thoroughly exhausted from all the embarrassment. God, you feel like your ten again, hiding your crushes because no one’s allowed to find out.

Vanille squints a bit and then gets this real thoughtful expression. “So…” she asks, carefully. “Do you like Lightning? Like, _like_ like her or just—” You push yourself up onto your elbows and cover her mouth before she can finish, somehow going red again for it.

“No.” you say firmly, and her expression softens some. “I met her twice, jeez.” You drop your hand away from her mouth, sigh, and fall back onto the couch. “Just can’t believe how fucking stupid I sound is all.” And you couldn’t be any more truthful.

She looks pleased enough by that, but you can’t figure out why. “Good!” she announces. “Those don’t last anyway! Relationships that really do are with people you’ve known a while. _Closer_ to you.” She grins far too broadly.

You let out a breath of disbelief. “And when’d you become the expert?” you ask, rolling your eyes but smiling all the same. “Last time I checked you were still riding the single train.”

She puffs up like she does when you make a jab at her. “Hey!” she says, slapping you lightly, and you don’t even pretend it hurts for once. “You are _mean!_ ”

You just laugh a little and goddammit okay so this was all kind of silly, and you guess it doesn’t fucking matter whether you’re choking in front of Lightning Farron. Not like anything’s ever going to happen anyway. She’s probably not even gay.

Yeah, you think, smiling at Vanille, it’s not like you’re ruining your chances at anything because there are no chances.

Lightning Farron isn’t even gay.

*

You find out thirteen days later that Lightning Farron is _very_ gay.

You’re at Serah’s to prove a point: you don’t give a shit what Lightning Farron thinks of you. And you’re doing pretty good too—least until you catch snippets of Serah and Vanille’s conversation.

You’re laid out across the sofa with the papers for a second job (librarian—Serah was thrilled to hear it was close to her and Vanille’s highschool), and Vanille and Serah are spread across the floor, Vanille dolling up Serah like she’s trying to impress.

Serah keeps trying to pull you into the conversation, but your application’s got your full attention until you hear the words _Lightning_ and _girlfriend_ in the same sentence. You perk up immediately.

“What?” you ask, and both of them look over at you a little surprised.

Vanille repeats your question back to you, and you ask, a little quick, “What did you just say?”

Vanille’s messing with you, you’re sure, because she asks, “About what?”

Oh, and ain’t that a problem. Now you got two choices: drop the conversation and pretend it never happened or let them both know you’re mighty interested in Serah’s sister. And you’re not sneaky like Vanille; you don’t know how to twist things around so no one’s the wiser to what you’re really asking. All you got in you in bluntness and bravado, and neither’s really gonna help you now.

So you swallow and figure why just bite the bullet when you can swallow it whole? “About Lightning?”

They both look at you like they’re trying to figure out why you’d care to know, and then Vanille’s face twists so you have to wonder if you just took a shotgun round to the back of the throat.

She looks over at Serah, but Serah’s already decided it doesn’t matter much and smiles at you and says, “Her ex-girlfriend came over the other day. It was incredibly awkward for everyone involved!” then she laughs a bit, and you kind of smile and laugh too because Lightning Farron has an ex-girlfriend.

Lightning Farron has an ex-girlfriend.

Lightning Farron is _gay_.

*

Somehow you’re not so nervous when Tuesday next rolls around. You demanded to be up front right around when it started getting dark, and you may have even tried a little harder with your make-up so you’d be ready when she walks in.

Your mood goes to shit quick because you’re impatient, and because no one ever fucking knows what they want when they come in or either they’ve got an order a mile long. People will never not piss you off so long as you still work in this fucking coffee house.

But around quarter ‘til seven she walks in, shin guards and all, and suddenly you’re less aggravated with the guy trying to tell you he wants something caffeinated but not too caffeinated and more interested with what you can see of Lightning over his shoulder.

You offer him a few choices, but you’re not really listening to yourself or him so when he finally makes up his mind you have to ask him what he ordered twice. And then you have to wait, pretending to smile at him, while it gets fixed up and all the while you’re going over what you’re going to say in your head even though all you can really think is: gay, gay, gay.

When he’s got his not too much, not too little caffeine fix, he walks and away and she steps up to the counter, and you say, “Hi, welcome to Starbucks.” You are not the least bit embarrassed or nervous.

She doesn’t smile back at you, just tells you what her order is: one large coffee, black. You send it off and then you’re ready for small-talk.

“So who do you play for? Your school, right?” you ask, and you’re nonchalant, but she’s even more so. You wonder if she’s ever gotten nervous or scared or anything with how controlled she always looks.

“Yes, but that’s not who I’m with right now. I play in a recreational league too.” She tells you, and you don’t say anything because you’re trying to figure out exactly how much of her day gets eaten up by college and the military and soccer and more soccer. “And before you ask, I play center-mid.”

“Oh.” You say because your knowledge of soccer is about as extensive as your knowledge of college or the military, which is to say you know absolutely nothing about soccer. “I wasn’t going to, but good to know I guess.” You shrug, and it’s easy. “Guess you get asked that a lot?”

She rolls her eyes and says, “All the time.” You imagine nearly every conversation anyone’s started with her has gone along the lines of _you play college soccer_ and _what’s your position_.

You just smile, and Yuj comes with her coffee and sets it in front of her. You ramble off the amount due, and while she fishes for change in her gym bag, you say, “That’s what happens when you get scholarships for sports.”

She comes out with a fistful of coins and a few dollars, but she holds them so she can look at you. “And how’d you know that?”

Oh. That’s right. She didn’t say anything about scholarships, but you just kind of smile and say, “Your sister talks about you enough.” And you guess that’s true because most of what you know about Lightning comes from Vanille, and most of what Vanille knows about Lightning comes from Serah.

Lightning’s expression freezes, and then she gets this little smile, just faint enough to be endearing, and you wonder why you were ever intimidated by it to begin with. She hands over the money, and you’re smiling big, and she takes her coffee, and then you say goodbye to each other and Lightning Farron heads right out the door.

Nothing fancy, nothing that screams you’ll be anything more than acquaintances, but for the first time since meeting her, you haven’t made a fool of yourself in front of Lightning Farron.

You are overjoyed.

*

You keep this up for five weeks with Lightning in the shop. You’ve talked about her school and her sports and her military career, and you’ve talked about your jobs and your sister and all your responsibilities (and more than a few drunk stories between the both of you), and it surprises you every time that Lightning Farron’s not untouchable. She’s smoking hot with everything going right for her, but you can talk to her same as you can talk to anyone else.

But of course, you don’t always get the chance because you got to work in the back or someone else’s got her at the register, but you at least catch her eye when you can’t talk and give her a wink before she can march out the door.

Because she doesn’t stay to drink much, but once or twice she sits herself down by the door and sips like the world’s on hold for her. And you get the urge to go and sit with her, call your break early and order something up for yourself, but you can never come up with any good reason before she heads out the door. And really, you only talk to her when she comes for caffeine, so you don’t think there’s even a good enough reason at all to let you sit and chat.

So when you come in her house smelling like sweat and lawn clippings, peeling off your sweater and dropping it in a heap on the bar, and you see her sitting in the other room, _Advanced Chemistry_ open in her lap, you nearly shit yourself trying to get over there too.

You close the sliding glass door behind you, give one look to the stairs where you can hear Serah and Vanille’s excited voices, and then head for the couch, dropping down next to her like she isn’t studying and you aren’t filthy.

“Well, well, well,” you say, smiling big. You look her up and down, and she’s as casual as can be, pajamas and everything. “Didn’t think you ever dropped by here anymore. Your school close down or something?”

She doesn’t stop scanning the page, eyes going line by line quick and steady, and she doesn’t even look up at you when she says, “You could use a shower.”

Your smile falters a second because okay _maybe_ you’re a little sweaty, but then you’re telling her, “Says the girl who leaves sweat stains in the seats! Customers won’t even sit at that table anymore!”

That gets her to smile, and she reaches the bottom of the page and then closes it on her thumb, marking it for later. She ignores your jab and asks, “Is there a reason you were mowing my backyard in the first place? Serah had that job, I thought.”

And she thought right, but when you showed up, Serah had also just gotten her Homecoming dress, and she was going to show you both ‘right after she finished the backyard’. You’d been more than happy to take that off her hands and let her and Vanille go do their thing even despite the look she was giving you.

But someone must have had a peek at you out in the yard to know it was you out there, and the thought that she might have been _staring_ makes your smile widen and stomach knot. “It was either this or dress duty.” You explain, and she just says _ah_ like she’s been there hundreds of times.

“Serah seemed disappointed.” She says, but from her tone you get the feeling that she doesn’t blame you in the least, even if that is her sister. “Take a shower and get up there. She’ll want you to at least see her in it.”

You don’t even hear the part about Serah for all your surprise. “What,” you ask, “Shower _here?”_

“Where else?” she asks. “It’s the second door on the right. Towels are in there. Go get cleaned off.” Then she opens her book and turns the page, picking up where she left off.

Your reaction’s immediate. You laugh and say, “Might need some help with that last part.” You waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

She smiles but doesn’t look up. “Busy. Next time maybe.”

Your grin is ridiculous.

You elbow her in the side lightly and say, “I’ll hold you to that.” She just rolls her eyes, and you stand up, stretch, and then head for the hall, practically skipping for happiness at just having traded an innuendo with Lightning Farron.

Your life is officially perfect.

*

Your life is officially over.

The shitstorm blindsides you on a Friday afternoon in the library between the Geography and History sections and comes in the form of a question from Serah Farron: would you go on a date with me? You choke and nearly drop the book on New Zealand you’re shelving.

You never saw it coming--but now that you think about it, you should have.

You realize with increasing dread that Serah Farron has only ever given you the kind of eyes you’ve given her sister. You realize Serah Farron has only ever tried strived for your attention like you’ve strived for her sister’s. You realize Serah Farron wants you like you want her sister, and you realize how utterly fucked this makes you.

And Serah Farron is still waiting for an answer even when you realize all of this and then go back through it all again just to be sure you understand exactly what level of fucked you are. By your calculations, you are approximately a prostitute pulling double duty.

And knowing all of this does absolutely nothing for you because Serah Farron is still rocking back and forth on the balls of her heels, hands behind her back, lip between her teeth, and Serah Farron is _still_ waiting for you to do something other than stare blankly at her.

So you do the only thing you can do: “Uh… What?”

She lets out this little breath that’s all nervous energy, and then she repeats, “I’d really like to go on a date with you, Fang.” It sounds no less damning the second time.

But there it is. You’ve heard it twice, and there’s no getting away from it now. You try to think of something to say to her, some way to break it easy that she’s not the one you want, but all you can think is how dressed up she looks, how Vanille must have helped her with her curls and makeup, and that doesn’t help you at all.

“Serah, I don’t…” You freeze up, but she’s already understood what you’re saying and is tensing up, mouth falling into an open mouthed frown. “You’re just not the girl for me. I, uh, sorry…”

Serah is quick to make like she isn’t as upset as she is, and her frown disappears behind a shaky smile and laugh. Her shoulders sag, but she tells you, “No, haha, no it’s fine. I just thought I’d finally, I don’t know, just get that off my chest.” Then she says, “Well! I, uh, I should probably… go.” She turns. “So I guess I’ll see you later, Fang.”

You kind of wave at her and choke, “Yeah.”

Your sister is her best friend and her sister is the girl you want to date and between the two of them, your life is officially over.

*

Your life is still officially over when Monday rolls around, and you’re stuck at the front desk of the library, head on the desk and full of nothing at all. You’ve talked it out over and over with Vanille the past weekend (and found out she’s been dropping hints for _months_ and known even longer than that), and now all you’ve got left is exhaustion at the whole thing.

Vanille knows about Lightning and Serah and the whole damn thing and how messed up it is, but she said Serah’d get over it ‘eventually’, and that she didn’t think Lightning would hold it against you even if “as Serah’s best friend, she should be telling you absolutely no that’s not okay to still be worried about trying to hook up with Lightning”.

But you pretty much know Lightning has this _thing_ with her sister, and you know that means she’s only ever going to see you as the girl who broke her sister’s heart (which is ridiculous considering you and Serah were still only _sometimes friends_ when she decided she was going to ruin your life forever).

And really, you can’t help but blame Serah for all of this even though she really didn’t do nothing for spite or meanness. Girl just thought you’d want to get it on with her even though her sister’s right there, hot as can be. Not her fault, you know, but it’s hard to make that connect with how you feel.

And it just ain’t fair to you or anyone that things had to turn out like they did. All the progress you made with Lightning’s been wiped away and now you’re probably going to have to keep away from Serah so she can let her feelings settle. You just lost two Farrons at the same time, and it isn’t fair.

You turn your head so you can breathe and let out a long sigh, downright melodramatic, but you can’t find it in you to be disgusted with yourself just yet because everything’s fresh and raw still.

You know you’ll get back on track soon—you _don’t_ stew—but until then you’ve decided: _no more Farrons_.

That’s that then. No more Farrons until you stop feeling so damn burnt out from the whole thing. Until then, you gotta focus on you. So you stretch, hands grasping at open air over the edge of your desk, and then you push yourself up and shake the stiffness out of your shoulders and back, resolved to stop being so damn mopey about the whole thing.

The first few moments of your new no Farron policy start with seeing Lightning Farron walk through the front doors of the library.

It’s the first time you’ve seen Lightning in plain clothes, and if it weren’t for her hair you might not have recognized her. And for all that this should be raising red flags in your head, the only thing you can even think is, _oh no, she’s hot._

By the time you stop looking her up and down and make eye contact, you get the sense to turn and look to your computer like you’re doing actually doing something. You pray she’s here for some book on Aristotle or whatever the hell she studies at school. You know she’s not.

“Hello,” she says, and there’s impending doom in the innocence of her greeting. You start prepping for what she’s got for you even if she looks just as calm as ever. She could have crazy murder on the brain, but you’d never know.

“Hey,” you start, more than a little unsure. “Don’t suppose your team’s started practicing around here now, has it?” You try to sound more hopeful than you feel.

 “No,” she says, right to the point.

You try again. “Not here for a book either, huh?”

She shakes her head and says, “Let’s talk.” She nods toward the book shelves, and you know she’s asking for privacy. “Sure,” you sigh, and you find it hard to be thankful she’s going to chew you out in private like you are. You really didn’t want to do this with her, but it was too good to think you weren’t going to get nothing from her.

You stand up because now all you want is to get this over with quick, and you lead her right back to the corner of the library. You settle against the wall, arms across your chest, and you’re ready to block out whatever she’s got to say before she even starts. “What’s up?” you ask even though you both damn well know what’s up.

She doesn’t jump you like you expect, though. She’s still just as calm as can be, and when she speaks, she not even accusing, “I heard you and Serah talked.” She goes right to the point, though, and you sigh for it.

“Yeah.” You say. “She wanted a date. Wasn’t interested.” When she doesn’t say anything to that, you arch a brow. Nothing to that? You ask, “How’d she take it?” You hardly care, but you’re just ready to hear all the things Lightning’s got to say to you, and you know that’ll help her to it.

Lightning looks at you hard for a moment and then says, “Pretty bad.” You sigh again and imagine how bad pretty bad is. “As her sister, I’m really supposed to hate you for that.”

Ugh, and there it is. You knew that was coming, maybe not so nicely wrapped like it was, but there was no way this wasn’t ending with Lightning telling you that you’re never going to bang ever.

But then she smiles.

“But,” she says, and suddenly she is stepping closer to you, and you tense up, flinching away from her when she stops right in front of you. You’ve never seen her any more intimidating than she is with that smile, and your breath stutters. “But if you were to make up with her, I don’t think I’d have that obligation anymore.” She is right in your face now, and you are somewhere between terrified and confused.

You are backed against the wall with Lightning Farron’s hands on your hip and your shoulder, and you aren’t even sure what to do with yourself when she leans in and goes right for your ear, lips near brushing against it as she whispers, “Because I _really_ don’t want to hate you.”

And then you are nothing but flushed and hot, and suddenly you understand nothing about what’s happening except that Lightning wants you like you want her, and as soon as you realize this, your first thought is to pull her toward you, bury your face in her neck, her hair. All you want to do is find out what breaks her calm, and figure out how to do it over and over and over and over again.

But Lightning doesn’t give you the chance.

As soon as you let out that breath you’ve been holding and go for her hips with your hands, she steps away from you and turns to go. You are so stunned that you can only watch as she saunters away and calls after her, “So hurry up and make nice.” She turns the corner, and you feel like you could crumple onto the floor.

You do a few seconds later.

You’ve got about five seconds to think about how you’ve lost all control of your life before you forget all about that and think of all the things that could have just happened. You could have kissed her. She could have fucked you.

The thought of her holding you up against the wall, her fingers pressing between your legs, and her lips right at your ear is more than you handle. The thought of the marks you’d have to leave to keep quiet is even more so.

You dig for your phone and dial for Serah, fumbling with the buttons for all that your fingers are shaking.

*

 

*

 

*

The air’s gotten cold. Frost’s at the corners of every window, and some mornings there’s snow in small patches everywhere. Winter’s upon you, no doubt about it, but despite the way the time flies, you and Lightning are still only _friends_.

That doesn’t stop her from sliding against your thighs, the inside of hers rubbing against the outside of yours, or digging her fingers into your shoulders, nails against your bare skin. Doesn’t stop you from getting friendly with her ass, one cheek in each hand, or getting even friendlier with her mouth, lips and tongue both, either.

Her dorm’s big—she’s got more space between her and two other girls than you did growing up and more than enough space on her bed for the both of you—and most importantly, it’s empty. You got the place to yourself, and you plan to keep kissing her like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do to her, especially since she’s kissing you like it’s all she’s ever wanted to do to you.

And if there's punishment for doing all this while Serah's none the wiser, well, you guess the best you can hope for is to plead insanity and hope they stay your sentence. After all, it wasn't your fault you fell in love with Serah's sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke is actually that this is a response to a prompt asking for a Stacy's Mom fic.
> 
> The other joke is this: as November is National Novel Writing Month and I've no delusions of being able to get out 50,000 words, I'll instead be focusing on getting some kind of story up every week. It may not be a novel, but I think I could use a break from trying to achieve perfection for a bit. Updates will happen on weekends most likely. No idea if this will work, but I'll try.


	5. Conditional Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lightning is a bitch, and Fang is left to take care of herself.

Lightning’s home.

That’s what they told you when you and Vanille got back from shopping. Vanille said you lit up four kinds of bright, but you barely had time to listen to her giggle and coo before thoughts of your head between Lightning’s thighs had you turning and heading for the door. You told her you’d see her later and to tell Sazh you dropped in, and then you were skipping down the front steps and bolting for your car.

The GC keeps Lightning busy out in the field, and some days you’re out as far as Taejin’s Tower clearing the roads for traders and travellers alike. There’s scarce time when the two of you are in town together, and when you are, you split your time between screwing each other into the night and sleeping through the day so you can do it all over again.

So it’s not your fault when you get to thinking about the way Light took you hard on the couch, pressed her fingers between your legs and held the back of your head so she could kiss all the air right out you while you writhed beneath her. Just the thought warms you and has you flexing your fingers against the leather of the wheel, licking your lips and thinking of all the ways you’ve ever wanted to use your kitchen counters.

If your thighs are squeezing together by the time you’re pulling up in the driveway, who could blame you? Just the sight of her velocycle parked there brings a smile to your face, and you let a quick, excited little breath and swing open the door, taking the steps to the front door in one bound.

“Honey, I’m home,” you call into the house. The lights are on, but the only sound is of water running. You grin. She must have known you were coming. No sense in making her wait any longer, especially when the ache between your legs is becoming more and more of a bother.

So you head for the bathroom, shrugging off your jacket on the way there, and make your voice go low, “You been in there long, Sunshine?”

But when you go to turn the knob, you’re met with resistance, and for a moment you’re stopped with confusion. Then you laugh, quick and barely amused.

“Forgot something, did you?” you call.

There’s no answer, and after a long moment you knock on the door. “Lightning, you gonna leave me out here all by my lonesome?” You’re still smiling, but it’s fading fast.

From within the bathroom, you can hear her begin to hum, softly at first but getting louder. You try the handle again, but when it still won’t budge, you grunt and knock on the door again. “Hey Light!” You’re sure you’re louder than the water, but she doesn’t stop her humming and won’t give you an answer.

It’s half a second before you know what game she’s playing, and you clench your teeth and go tight in the shoulders. “Oh, I get it,” you say, more than just a little bothered. “Well, see what you get from me tonight then, sweetheart!”

You stomp away from the bathroom door and pass the kitchen. You give one long, longing look at the counters and then huff and run your fingers through your hair in disbelief that Lightning chose to play this game with you. 

 _It’s been too damn long_ , you think bitterly as you march on to the bedroom.

 You fall back into the bed and fist your hands in your hair, groaning and hating the world. Down the hall, Lightning carries on like she’s not a care in the world, and there’s a part of you that hates her too—hates her enough to want to drag your nails down her thighs and kiss her with your teeth.

And ain’t that just what you need—to run your fingers across her skin, along her curves, through her hair and map everything with teeth and tongue. Figures she’d be locked up and just out of reach.

You groan again and can’t help the way your mind wanders.

She’s in there, probably grinning to herself because she knows you’re out here suffering, and she’s naked and dripping and smelling like strawberries. You can see the smoothness of her skin like you were there with her, see the muscle and her firm arse like they’re right in front of you.

You can’t help but wonder if she’s in there, back against the tile, fingers between her legs, the most perfect expression of need on her pretty features. Is she biting her thumb to keep from moaning, her face all scrunched up because she knows she’s close and it’s everything she can do to keep her legs from failing and her fingers working within her?

You lick your lips and let out a shallow puff of air. The seam of your jeans is tight against you, and your thoughts aren’t doing nothing to help, so you go for the fly and shimmy out of them. It’s almost too easy to imagine Lightning’s pulling them off you, actually giving you the time of day.

She’d spread your legs and lay her hands on the tops of your thighs.  She’d press her fingers along your stomach, eyes so keen on you, so unabashed and so alive. She’d keep looking at you even as her tongue found your clit, her fingers curling inside you. You’d be done quick, and all the while she’d keep on with her eyes and her fingers and her mouth, and she’d keep you riding out your pleasure for long after it should have been done and gone.

Or she’d pull you from the bed, press your back against the wall and keep her lips right by your ear, telling you all the things she was going to do to you. Make you moan, make you beg. Make you never want anyone else. Then she’d press her mouth to your neck and stroke you hard and quick, driving you to the point where your legs can barely hold up and she’s got to place a hand at your hip to keep you steady.

All you can think is of all the wonderful things Lightning could do to you with her eyes, her voice, her fingers and tongue. You’re crossing your legs hard and biting your lip, and god _damn_ if she doesn’t hurry up, you know you’ll go crazy.

But just the thought of her sucking at your neck, her hand cupping your breast, her fingers curling deep inside you has you out of breath and pressing your own fingers against the fabric of your underwear.

It’s only a bit of a relief because the Lightning in your head is moving faster, making you shudder and gasp and throw your head back with her name on your lips, and you can’t hope to compete with that, but you pick up the pace anyway because you’re damn well gonna try.

You roll your tongue, have to remember to breathe, but Lightning just keeps on, hovering over you and smiling down, eyes hooded, her fingers where yours are, urging you on.

She’s pushing you hard, fingers right where you need them and mouth hot against yours, and you nearly forget she’s not really here, that’s it’s your fingers making you jump and jerk and tremble instead of hers. You’re gasping for air and all the while your head is twisting into the sheets for all the jolts of pleasure rocking your hips up and out. You’re close, so close, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep seeing her there, giving you what you need and taking everything you got, so you just focus on the press of your fingers and wait to crest.

But then the bed dips, and your eyes pop open to see the real thing sitting there, warm and wet and inviting with those smoky eyes and that damn smile and nothing to hide her curves but a towel. You lurch forward, out of breath and eternally thankful she’s here, but when you start to talk, she slides in behind you, kisses your neck, and tells you, “Don’t mind me.”

“Light,” you start to say, and it comes out strained and more than just a little needy.

She doesn’t pay you a bit of mind, reaching around your waist, her towel and wet skin right against your back, and takes hold of your wrist and brings it back to your clit. You groan because you think you’ve finally got her, but she just presses against your fingers to press against you, and she leads you back into stroking quick, hurried circles against yourself.

You can’t tell if you care because she’s right there, her nails scratching against your hipbones, her thighs squeezing around yours, her voice right in your ear telling you come on, come on, come on _Fang,_ and everything is hot and shaky and bright, and you can’t breathe because all the air’s left you in one gasp of _oh!_

Spots explode behind your lids, and nothing’s real except the nails scraping up your thighs and the shallow breaths in your ear and the way every bit of you tingles and hums, warm and happy.

“Couldn’t wait ten minutes, could you?” Her voice is smugly pleased, but it’s low with want.

You lean back into her, breathing as steady as you can for all your body buzzes and thrums in time with the beat of your heart. She’s got her hands on your hips, and you grasp at her wrist. The back of your shirt is cool and wet. You turn, slowly, to look at her.

Her body is slick with water, and her towel has dragged down to the swell of her breasts. She pushes a strand of brown hair behind your ear, still smiling so perfectly. You lean forward to give her a quick kiss, nipping at her bottom lip.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that Light?” you ask, and she just smiles and pulls you down by the shoulders over her.


	6. The Tides Remember All Who Sink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a song, and it sounds nothing like a funeral dirge.

As a kid, you loved the caged birds.

You’d stand down by the docks and peek over the tops of the vendors’ tables and watch the birds flitter about within the bars of their cage. They were bright yellow, vibrant green, shiny blue, and impossibly red, and every single one of them sung until their voices died and they mysteriously disappeared. You always wondered why you never saw them again after they were gone, but not long after you took up watching the birds, you got taken on your first ship as a cabin boy.

You forgot about the birds then, filled your head with things like constellations and maps and swords and pistols and masts and running a crew instead, and not once did you ever think about their colors or songs or mysterious disappearances.

At least until you realized you’d been caged yourself.

Her name is Admiral Farron, but they call her Lightning on the seas and through every backwater port you’ve ever anchored in. She is the pirate slayer, quick and dangerous as the flashes of heaven in a storm, and she’s caged you good.

Never was a two-master that you saw cut through the tides like hers— _Odin_ , she calls it—and never was there an admiral with such steel in her marrow. She didn’t read you the bounty on your head before she sunk  _Bahamut_  and took you and your crew for captives of the state.

“Some cage,” you say, whistling because there’s no one to hear you but yourself.

For you, she didn’t bother with the brig or the shackles. She treats you for your piracy with plush beds, generous rations, and time, and all you have to do is sing for her, whatever tune she wants. Sometimes it’s nothing but idle chatter over hard tack and tea that she wants from you, a game of sorts that you haven’t even begun to figure out, but other times she wants to see your colors: green and blue and red and yellow.

You long since abandoned the thought that it’s flattery, that she’s holding you specially because she knows the tales of your escapes, stealing skiffs and sailing away or daring jumps from the tops of masts. She’s more a pirate than she thinks, is all. You told her so when she pressed her face into the crook of your neck: every pirate starts by taking what they want with no regard for the say of others.

And she’s got no regard for the law or the state or the opinion of her crew. She hasn’t docked in three weeks when the gallows were less than two away from where she took you. Her supplies are running low, and her patience has waned to show for it. She might take your clothes from you soon.

“Admiral!”

You look up in time to see her open the door to her quarters—yours too now—and wave a salute away from her crewman. It’s standard issue, and she pushes the door closed behind her afterward.

You whistle again, this time because she  _is_ here to hear you.

Admiral Farron is  _gorgeous_. It’s one of the things you do like about her. She wears a thin sleeved shirt, too white to exist on the sea, and a gold stitched black overcoat. Her boots are a fine dark leather, and she wears a crimson sash around her waist. And as much as you admire the figure she cuts wearing her riches on her skin, you like her better without all the cotton and velvet.

“How are the currents?” you ask, sprawled across the furs of her bed.

She hangs her hat on a stand tacked to the floor and begins to slide out of her coat. “Fighting us,” she says. “We’ll stay anchored here until they settle.”

You sit up, smiling at her, and say, “If I didn’t know better I’d think you didn’t want to get rid of me.”

She hangs her coat up as well and bends to unlace her boots. “Don’t worry. You’ll have your day at the gallows soon enough,” she assures you flatly, tossing the boots once they’re off. She nearly sounds certain of that. You laugh.

She turns toward you doesn’t even smile. Instead, she crosses the room and kneels on the edge of the bed, pulling you up into a swift kiss. She tastes like the sea. You like that about her too.

When she pulls away and looks down at you, eyes searching for something, you give her your best grin and ask, “How is my crew?”

“You’ll see them all yourself before the get the noose,” she says, and you just laugh.

“The captain always goes last, then?” you ask.

“Yes,” she tells you, pulling at the string of your collar. Her eyes have stopped searching. Now she can only look as the fabric slides low around your shoulders. “You’re the main attraction.”

“For you? Or them?” You’re too smug, maybe, but she hasn’t tired of your song yet.

She brushes a hand over your collarbone. “What’s it matter to a dead woman?” 

She dips low and presses a kiss to your shoulder. You breathe softly and let her push you back into the plush pillows and furs. You don’t tell her you don’t plan on dying, for her or her state. Besides, she makes it clear she doesn’t want to talk when she nips at the skin of your collarbone.

You, for all you don’t mind such a pretty thing above you, aren’t doing much more than running your fingers up her back, not even bothering to pull the shirt from her as you go. She rises from your shoulder to kiss you, and you barely give anything at all.

She breaks from the kiss and tells you, “You’re making me angry.”

You smile innocently. “Thinking about the gallows, love. Death’s a prickly subject, you kno—” She kisses you again.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she tells you.

You press your fingers to her hips and smirk. “As it please the lady,” you reply.

“Admiral,” she corrects, settling on your thigh.

“As it please the  _admiral_ ,” you repeat, raising your leg and pulling her down against you by the hips.

You haven’t thought of the pretty songbirds on the vendors’ tables for a long time, but now their chirping is all you hear even as you drag your captor down against your thigh, even as she leans forward and breathes heavy in your ear, even as you feel heat bloom between your legs.

She grits her teeth and bites her lip and rolls her hips against you, and for all that you shouldn’t be able to think of anything else, you finally realize what happened to those birds that stopped singing, those birds that disappeared.

No one has any use for a bird that can’t sing.

You lean up, kiss her hard with teeth, and slide your hand between her legs. She starts, breaking from the kiss and letting out a hard breath. You circle her clit with your fingers slowly, and she bites her lip again and shudders. Her arms are trembling where they’re holding her up.

You won’t stop singing, but you can’t sit and wait for her to tire of you either. And if things keep up, she won’t have time to lose interest.  You wonder what will run out first: her supplies, her patience, or her caution.

Her right arm crumples, and she falls, her forehead pressed into the furs next to your head. You just press against her harder, faster and watch the way she jerks and sighs and tries not to call out.

She is a pretty thing, and you’ll even be a little sad to see her go, but caged things don’t last long, and you’ve got no plans to stop living. You know you’ll get the chance if only you keep singing whatever tune she wishes of you, keep letting her think you a little bird who wants naught of the world outside your cage.

 _That will be the easy part_ , you think, watching her turn her head and grasp at the bed and rock like a ship at sea, so caught in her pleasure she’s nearly lost herself. You press a kiss to the side of her head and smile against her hair. Who knows? You might even take her with you when you go.

Pirates take what they want with no concern for the rest, after all, and you’ve not quite wanted a little bird to sing for you so much as you do now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday present for fmorgana. Be watchful for her upcoming pirate AU fic!


End file.
